


Ego Boost

by rosefox



Category: Ratatouille (2007)
Genre: Apologies, Gen, Loyalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-07-06 07:23:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15881319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosefox/pseuds/rosefox
Summary: Anton turns over a new leaf and finds Ambrister patiently waiting beneath it.





	Ego Boost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arithanas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/gifts).



> Thanks for a very fun prompt. Bon appetit!

Anton Ego had not bothered to keep a list of the many, many people he and his reviews had offended, outraged, and professionally destroyed. When he rediscovered his zest for life and decided to make amends, the lack of this list became a problem. Fortunately, he had Ambrister, and Ambrister loved making lists.

"This is a very long list," Anton observed. 

"It is, sir," Ambrister said apologetically from behind his left shoulder. 

It was, in point of fact, more of a booklet. While Anton pecked at his typewriter, Ambrister made full use of a computer with an enormous monitor and something called _desktop publishing software_. The booklet listed each person who was angry with Anton and the reason why, and was helpfully illustrated with scowling photos. Anton briefly wondered how Ambrister had obtained them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Anton could see the butler clasp his hands to keep them from trembling. "You are very thorough," Anton said. He was still learning how to give compliments, or, as he thought of them, positive reviews. He could usually manage one sentence at a time.

Ambrister puffed up his chest a bit, like a pigeon. "Thank you, sir."

Anton flipped through the booklet. "Giacomo Capellini, of Un Canard Trop Mignon—I don't even remember this one. Did I really call his lamb ragout 'repulsive'?"

"You did, sir."

"A boring adjective; I must have been off my game that day. Well, I will find something nicer to say about it, or at least something more eloquent. Jean-Claude Bernard, who's that? A hotel bellboy? I can't possibly have reviewed his cooking."

"You stiffed him on the gratuity, sir. When you traveled to Nice in 2002 for the mushroom festival."

Anton swiveled to consider his butler. "How long have you been keeping this list, Ambrister?"

"Since I entered your employ, sir. Nineteen and a half years."

"For your own amusement?"

Ambrister quivered. "No, sir. I hoped you would find it useful someday, sir. A good butler plans ahead and is always prepared."

"Hm," Anton said. He went back to reading. "Marine Le Pen—I bumped into her in a crowd and insulted her dress. Ambrister, I am afraid there is no force on Earth that would induce me to apologize to Marine Le Pen. This one will have to remain on the books."

"Very good, sir."

Anton reached the last page. The final entry was a name followed by a single sentence. He read the name, frowned, looked at the photograph, and read it again.

"Ambrister Minion."

"Yes, sir."

"You included yourself on the list of people who feel, as they say, hard done by."

Ambrister's quivering became quaking. "I did, sir."

Anton cleared his throat and read aloud: " 'Through nineteen and a half years of selfless service, you have never once thanked him.' Is that true?"

"It, it is, sir."

"I pay you a very good salary. Is that not thanks enough?"

"N-no, sir." Ambrister gulped. "It is not."

"I see." Anton put down the booklet, squared it with the edge of his desk, and steepled his hands, thinking. Finally, looking off into the distance, he said, "Well, usually I am in favor of beginning at the beginning, but in this case I believe my meal of eating crow ought to begin with dessert. Ambrister, I apologize."

Ambrister stared at him. "You—you do, sir? I mean, thank you, sir!"

"No, thank _you_." Anton turned in his chair to meet his butler's astonished gaze. "While I dine at the finest restaurants in France and hunch over my typewriter, you manage everything else so well that I don't even know what 'everything else' entails. Thanks to your efforts, I have been able to permit myself to become completely incapable of functioning independently in the outside world. And now you are facilitating my return to that world. Without this list of yours, and so many other things you do every day, I would be lost. So thank you, Ambrister, thank you very, very much."

The butler's face went bright red and he broke out into a beaming smile. He stood up a little straighter and tightened his tie. "You are very welcome, sir," he said. "Thank you for noticing."

"I will do more than notice," Anton said. "Effective immediately, your salary is doubled."

"Oh no, sir, you can't afford that," Ambrister said, and then he gulped. "I mean... that is to say... La Ratatouille is not yet profitable, sir, and most of your liquid assets are tied up in the business. We are still paying off the contractors for the renovation, and the bribes to the health inspectors are quite steep—"

"Are you my bookkeeper too?"

"I am, sir." Ambrister coughed. "I thought you knew."

"I know nothing at all about how my own household and business are run," Anton said, shaking his head. "A shocking oversight, which I shall remedy. In any case, how much of a raise can I afford to give you? Be fair to yourself, now."

Ambrister whipped out a calculator and did some figuring. "Twenty percent?" he ventured.

"Done. And when the restaurant takes off you will have the other eighty."

"Thank you very much, sir!" Ambrister said fervently.

"It is the absolute least I can do," Anton said. He snapped his fingers suddenly. "And speaking of the restaurant, how would you like to join me there for dinner, as an early celebration of the twentieth anniversary of the fortuitous day when you entered my employ?"

"I would be most pleased, sir."

"Excellent, excellent. Ring up Linguini and ask him to put an additional chair at my usual table. We'll have the chef's tasting menu, six o'clock." Anton caught himself. "If that suits you."

Ambrister regarded him with new respect. "It does indeed, sir. Thank you, sir."

"All right, enough of this." Anton waved him off. "All these lovey-dovey feelings are too rich for my blood." He glanced at the booklet. "I had better pace myself. No more for today. Perhaps tomorrow I'll phone, who was it, Giacomo Capellini. Ridiculous name—but I won't tell him that, I suppose."

Ambrister retreated, smiling.


End file.
